CHAPTER ELEVEN
M
r. Stoker returned in due course, hair untrimmed and dripping but smelling deliciously of fresh soap and clean male animal.
He had not touched the beard as of yet, and I raised the point with him.
“I was about to take care of it when Leopold offered to shave me later.
He is quite experienced, you know.”
“I should have thought the one thing of which Leopold had no experience was shaving.”
“In that case, you would be wrong.
He accepts himself for what he is, but he has upon occasion shaved the whole of his face.”
I paused, struck by the enormity of such a thing.
“And those are the only times he has seen his own face.
I cannot imagine it.”
“Yes, well, faces change,” he said softly.
I did not look at his scars, but I knew he was thinking of them, for his features had taken on a faraway and tortured expression.
Before I could ask, he caught sight of the garment in my hand.
“In the name of bleeding Jesus, what are you sewing?
Is that my shirt?”
“It is, and I must say, it is in a deplorable state.
But at least the material is quite good and will stand up to proper mending.
Unfortunately, mending is not one of my skills,” I said, holding up the shirt.
Somehow I had managed to attach it to my own skirt, and I took up scissors to snip it free.
Mr. Stoker was not so patient.
He grasped it and jerked it loose with a single wrench, the stitches popping as he brandished it at me.
“But this is the shirt from my bag.
Where is the shirt I was wearing?”
“Hanging out to dry, along with your stockings.
They were both filthy and smelled vile.
I washed them and hung them out so I didn’t have to smell them any longer.
It is a lovely sunny day, so they ought to dry quickly.
I found this in your bag and thought you could wear it today, but it wanted mending, so I was attempting it as a sop since I knew you would be outraged at my washing your things.”
I nodded towards his other garments.
“Your suit is terribly rusty.
I brushed it, but it looks as though you have put on quite a bit of weight since you bought it.
I daresay the seams will have to be let out.”
He fixed me with a venomous look.
“Did you just call me fat?
And did you clean the caravan?”
“I offered no observation upon your physique, but since you ask, if I were to make a comparison, Cabanel’s
Fallen Angel comes to mind.”
His brow furrowed.
“I am not familiar with it.”
“Aren’t you?
You ought to look it up sometime.
Quite his best work, I think.
A trifle sullen, but I am sure you will see the resemblance,” I said sweetly.
Cabanel’s Lucifer was indeed sulky, his painted eyes filled with tears of rage at his fall.
But the rest of him .
.
.
the memory of that long shapely thigh and beautifully muscled chest sent a delightful frisson down my spine.
“And yes, I may have tidied up a little.”
I had done a good deal more than that.
I had moved the chairs and plumped the cushions, cleaned out the stove and laid a fire, and picked a few sprigs of wild hyacinth to stand in a little jug upon the table.
The windows sparkled, and the brass rails of the caravan gleamed.
I was well pleased with my efforts.
He curled a lip.
“What a lovely wife you make.”
“How revolting.
I didn’t do any of this for you, you impossible man.
I did it for myself.
I prefer to be surrounded by order and cleanliness.
And as a scientist, I can only say your penchant for filth is deplorable.”
He was still staring at the shirt in his hands.
“It isn’t the Shroud of Turin, Mr. Stoker.
There are no religious mysteries to be found there.
It is a shirt.”
“It is a symbol of your interference,” he said stubbornly.
“I had no notion when I brought you away from London that you would be so .
.
.
so
managerial.”
“You ought to have,” I pointed out.
“I did much the same in your workshop, and I would do the same at Buckingham Palace if I found arrangements did not suit me.
I think better when I am in motion and things about me are orderly.”
“And what do you have to think about?”
he demanded.
“This business with the baron—” I began, but I had no chance to finish.
A knock sounded at the door of the caravan.
It was open, and the visitor had rapped at the doorjamb before putting her head inside.
“Good morning,” said Salome.
Her lips were twitching with amusement, and I wondered how much of our conversation she had overheard.
Mr. Stoker, still half-naked, promptly thrust his arms into his still-torn shirt.
“Good morning,” I told her.
“Do forgive my husband.
He is being shy this morning.
Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you, but no,” she said, lingering in the doorway.
“I merely wanted to extend an invitation to you.”
“To me?
How very kind.”
Mr. Stoker made a strangled sound.
“Not at all,” Salome continued smoothly.
“It occurred to me that you traveled only with a very small bag and likely do not have a costume for participating in Stoker’s act.
Come to my tent later.
I will make certain you are properly attired.”
Her ebony gaze swept me from top to toe.
I thanked her warmly and offered her some refreshment, which she promptly declined.
She left then, and I noticed the smell of her musky perfume lingered.
I moved to open the windows further to let in a little of the freshening breeze and banish the heavy scent.
Mr. Stoker gave me a level look.
“She wants something,” he said.
His voice was oddly flat and his color was once again high.
“Of course she does,” I agreed.
“No doubt she wants to have a nice cozy chat about you.”
He blinked furiously.
“What do you mean?”
I waved him out of the way and drew the curtains back to air them out.
“The lady is naturally curious about your bride, and one cannot blame her.
Obviously there has been a relationship of some significance between you—and a decidedly carnal one unless I miss my guess.”
He choked a little.
“How can you possibly know that?”
I gave him a pitying glance.
“For a natural historian, you know surprisingly little about the facial expressions of higher-order primates.
Remind me to find a copy of Darwin’s book upon the subject for you,” I added, thinking of how useful the work had proven in my encounter with Mr. de Clare.
“I have read the bloody book,” Mr. Stoker countered.
“I simply did not realize you were studying me like some sort of specimen.”
“I wasn’t,” I corrected.
“I was studying her.”
He had made a hash of putting on his shirt, so intent had he been upon my observations.
I gave the shirt a sharp tug and it fell into place.
“That’s better.
I will leave you to finish dressing on your own, and then we must prepare for the act.”
· · ·
Mr. Stoker spent the rest of that morning sharpening the set of knives Rizzolo had left behind and practicing his aim by throwing them at an apple box.
I did not watch.
When he had finished plying his blades, he set to altering his black suit.
He had indeed been a
much smaller fellow when he had last worn it, and there was scarcely enough fabric in the seams to permit the alterations.
The waist was largely unchanged, but it appeared he had developed the muscles of his back and thighs admirably.
He ordered me about, instructing me to fix pins where he could not reach.
“The shirt is improved since you mended it, although I must say it is a bit tight across the back.
Perhaps you ought not to throw knives in it.
I daresay the extra effort will cause it to split.
Have you a neckcloth?”
He rummaged in the pocket for a moment, then drew out a pathetic little scrap of black silk.
“I have pen wipers nicer than that.
Never mind.
I will attend to it.”
“Help me out of this coat,” he ordered.
“I feel as if I were in the grip of a lethargic anaconda.”
“Goodness, how you complain!
Here, only be careful of the pins.”
The warning had come too late.
In attempting to shrug off the coat, he had driven half a dozen pins directly into his shoulder, and he howled in outrage.
“Get it off!”
“Heavens, Androcles didn’t have this much trouble with his lion.
Very well—hold still!”
I ordered.
He opened his mouth to rage some more, but I stood toe to toe with him and he subsided, clamping his mouth shut.
“Now, ease yourself down onto the chair, and I will be able to see what the trouble is.”
He did as I bade, and I bent to extricate him.
“The pins have gone all the way in.
All I can see are the beads, so hold very still.
I will be quick.”
He said nothing, and I plucked a dozen pins from his shoulder.
At the end of each trembled a drop of blood.
Carefully, I pulled the coat away, extricating him from the rest of the pins.
I removed the waistcoat as well, not surprised to find sizable spots of blood dotting the creamy white cambric of his shirt.
“Remove your shirt, please.
I have just the thing.”
I rummaged in my bag for my medical kit and extracted a small bottle.
“Oil of calendula.
Frightfully old-fashioned, but Aunt Lucy swore by it,” I pronounced.
“It will stop any chance of infection from those filthy pins.”
He had removed the shirt and was sitting gingerly—no doubt because the trousers were snugly pinned as well.
I poured a little of the oil onto a handkerchief and applied it to the punctures and the few scratches I found.
While I attended him, he amused himself by rummaging through the little collection of bottles, examining the various oils and tinctures.
He said nothing, but his expression was thoughtful.
“I daresay you find this silly after what you have endured,” I said with a nod to his scars.
He gave a tentative shrug.
“Yes, but I will admit I prefer your ministrations.
At least your preparations smell better.
I think the Brazilian fellow who stitched up my wounds used dung to poultice them.”
“Hold this,” I instructed.
He pressed the handkerchief to one of the pinholes whilst I bent to inspect his scars.
One of them wrapped over the top of his shoulder, neatly clipping the head of the Chinese dragon tattooed upon his back.
“Rather remarkable,” I murmured.